


Caught up in Circles

by Goldy



Series: Time after Time [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, FBI Agent Betty Cooper, Investigative Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, Longing, Post-4x17, Post-Time Jump, Reunion Fic, season 5 spoilers/speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: Sequel to the Second Hand Unwinds.He remembers the way she looked at him afterwards in the car—like she would happily throw herself into the kiss again with no agenda, no ruse. He could have told her then that he and Jessica had broken up. He should have told her.He is not sure why he didn’t.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Time after Time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952347
Comments: 26
Kudos: 64
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	Caught up in Circles

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [ArsenicPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicPanda) for being a soundboard and the wonderful beta job!

Jughead set his alarm for 8:00am that morning. He had a plan: shower, grab a mug of coffee before anyone else stirred, and write until early afternoon.

That was two hours ago. Since then he has sat hunched over on his bed, laptop in front of him, and nothing but a blank screen to show for his efforts. The day is cloudy and only faint light drifts in from outside. The glow from his computer screen blares into his eyes. His back hurts from hunching over. His legs are stiff and starting to tingle.

Six months ago he pitched his novel—murder in a small town, the adults who covered it up, the teenagers who were determined to find the truth—and it was good enough to find a publisher willing to take a chance on him. He even received a small advance.

Since then, he has dodged emails asking for an update and provided pitiful excuses for the delay: “ _busy week, be back to you soon.”_

He tries to create good habits. Wake up at the same time every day. Set aside a block of time for writing. Minimize distractions.

And all he has to show for it is a blank screen.

There is a knock on the door, and he cricks his neck up from the computer screen. “Yes?” he calls.

The door creaks open and Toni Topaz pokes her head in the room. “Sorry to disturb the next great American novel, but we’re making breakfast if you’re hungry.”

Jughead sighs and then closes the screen on his laptop. His stomach rumbles at the word “ _breakfast_.” Maybe he needs food and he can try again.

He looks up at Toni and forces a smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

His old friend smiles fondly at him. She has not changed much in the seven years since they graduated Riverdale High. Her hair is cut shorter than it used to be. It now falls to her shoulders, but she has kept a patented streak of purple along one side.

“‘Kay,” she says, and then in a more conspiratorial voice, she adds, “be careful, Cheryl is in a mood.”

 _Great_ , he thinks, but only says, “Forewarned is forearmed.”

Toni winks at him and then saunters off. When she is gone, Jughead flops back against the pillows and stares up at the ceiling of “his” bedroom. Since his return to Riverdale, he has been staying in one of the many guest rooms at Thistlehouse. He can’t afford a hotel, and he does not relish imposing on his father and Alice. Nor has he ever managed the courage to return to his old bedroom—the bedroom he still thinks of as _Betty’s room_ even though it has been seven years and it was once his bedroom as much as hers.

Besides, it was only ever supposed to be a few days. He was in town for Jellybean’s birthday bash, and then he would head back out again.

But then he and Jessica started fighting again and she asked him to give her “space” and he started helping Betty investigate the Goblins and days stretched into a week and weeks became a month and now here he is, still living off Cheryl Blossom’s rapidly diminishing kindness.

Not that Toni would allow him to stay elsewhere, but he has never been good at living off the generosity of others.

 _“We gotta look out for ourselves, boy,”_ his father had told him once. “ _You ever get thinking you can rely on someone else’s charity then you’re already too far gone.”_

The truth is, he does not have anywhere else to go. He and Jessica broke up a week ago—correction, Jessica had dumped him a week ago. They were drifting apart, she said. They barely had anything to say to each other anymore. And if he kept finding excuses to stay in his hometown, working with his high school ex, maybe he should be thinking about what he _really_ wanted.

He does not blame her. Things have not been well between them for a long time now. She never said anything, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes when another day came and went without progress. “ _Try again tomorrow_ ,” she would say, but it was the suggestion of someone who thought she had to be supportive, not someone who truly believed in him. And why should she? Months had gone by and all he had was a blank page.

He has a job on contract with Mockfeed, a website that specializes in inane quizzes and top ten lists. He writes articles with headlines like: _“This quiz will tell you which Sex and the City handbag you really are!” _and “ _What the items on your bedside table say about how approachable you are in your relationships!”_

Mockfeed pays him enough that he covers his half of the rent, but it was not lost on either of them that Jessica picked up more than he did—more of the food, more of the dinners out, the internet bills, the heating bills. He did not mind that she made more money than him, but he was painfully aware that he was not pulling his weight. She left for her job at the hospital day in and day out while all he did was sit at home and stare at an empty page.

His stomach grumbles again. Jughead pushes his laptop out of the way, grabs his phone, and heads off to meet Cheryl and Toni for breakfast.

He finds them in the dining room. Nana Rose is sitting at the opposite end of the table and Toni and Cheryl sit facing each other in the middle. As usual, there is enough food spread out across the table to feed a small army. There are bowls of fruit, plates piled with pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, and of course, real Blossom maple syrup.

It is a mystery to him where the food comes from each morning. He is certain that Cheryl does not prepare it herself, but he has never seen a staff member at Thistlehouse. When he had remarked on this to Betty, her eyes glinted and she suggested that Cheryl had House Elves in the basement to cook for her.

Thinking about Betty leads his thoughts to their kiss in the closet of the Maple Club, and he has been trying very, very hard _not_ to think about that kiss. It is all too easy to obsess over the way she moaned against his mouth, the way she pulled him closer to her, the way her lips on his sent sparks of electricity shooting down his spine and his body humming.

He remembers the way she looked at him afterwards in the car—like she would happily throw herself into the kiss again with no agenda, no ruse. He could have told her then that he and Jessica had broken up. He _should_ have told her.

He is not sure why he didn’t.

Cheryl’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Sit down, sit down,” she says with impatience. She gestures to the empty seat next to her as she pops a strawberry into her mouth.

Jughead eyes the seat wearily—with everything involving Cheryl, he can never shake the feeling that whatever comes next might be a trap. Not that he would ever turn down a free meal.

He takes the empty seat and spends the next minutes piling up his plate with everything on offer in front of him. It does not escape his attention that Cheryl barely picks at the spread in front of her. She nibbles at the fruit and the edge of a piece of toast, but does not touch the pancakes, the meat, or the eggs.

Jughead figures it is his responsibility to make sure the food does not go to waste.

Cheryl waits until he has shuffled a mouthful of egg, toast, and sausage in his mouth before she turns to him, and in an angelic voice, says, “Toni tells me that you were up early this morning to write. How did it go?”

Jughead shoots Toni a look that he clearly hopes registers his betrayal at being outed like this. Toni looks innocently around and then takes a bite of toast while batting her eyelashes at him.

He suddenly feels like he has been summoned to face an interrogation.

He chews angrily and swallows. “Fine,” he bites out.

“Ah,” says Cheryl, “still blocked then, are we?”

Jughead takes another bite of sausage to avoid answering and then simply shrugs his shoulders.

Cheryl leans back in her chair. Her lips are painted a brilliant red colour and she is wearing a silk bathrobe that matches the colour of her lipstick. She pulls the sash more tightly around her waist and rapid fire questions fall from her mouth.

“How much longer are you planning to stay in town, Jughead?”

“Not that we’re not happy to have you stay as long as you want,” Toni cuts in with a significant look in Cheryl’s direction.

Cheryl waves that off. “Yes, yes, of course. But surely you have a life back home. You have that little girlfriend, the vegan activist. What was her name? Something that starts with a ‘J.’ Janine?”

“Jessica,” he grits out.

“She must be getting lonely without you,” says Cheryl. “It’s been nigh a month now, hasn’t it? I do admire how secure she must be in your relationship. I must say, I don’t know that I would keep my claws to myself if I knew my TT was off somewhere else working closely with her ex-girlfriend.”

“Babe,” says Toni, with a supporting smile in Cheryl’s direction, “you know I could never bear to be away from you for that long.”

She and Cheryl smile sweetly at each other and Jughead shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Betty and I are just friends,” he mumbles around a piece of toast. He hopes that if he gives the impression of being very hungry and needing to eat, she will leave him in peace.

She does not. “ _Friends_ ,” Cheryl says with a scoff. “Please, Jughead. You and my TT are _friends_. You and my dear cousin Betty will never be _just friends_. As soon as you admit that to yourselves, the better off you’ll both be. Either you give in to what you’re both feeling, or you don’t. But to dance around it and lie to yourselves like you are… that is the worst of both worlds, Jughead. And deep down, in your maudlin writer soul, you know that as well as I do.”

Jughead feels Nana Rose staring down at him from the other end of the table. He has no idea if the old woman is even following the conversation, but Nana Rose has always made him feel like he is being turned inside out.

His face burns. He tries to swallow another piece of sausage, but he barely tastes the meat as he chews.

“My cousin is lonely,” says Cheryl and there is a hint of sadness in her voice. “Don’t get me wrong, Jughead, I am not saying she needs to be rescued by a man—” she casts him a dark look “—and especially not by you—”

“Hey!” he yelps.

“—but that job of hers moves her hither and yon across this country.” Cheryl pops another strawberry into her mouth and narrows her eyes at him as if considering his suitability as a romantic partner for Betty. “She could use company. She could use someone who was not tied down to one place. Perhaps someone who could take his job on the road with him, hmm?”

Jughead looks away from her considering gaze. His stomach feels like it is swooping down near his feet. He is outraged that Cheryl thinks that she can step into his private life like this and tell him how he and Betty should be conducting themselves. But another part of him is desperate to know more about how Betty has spent her last seven years. She seems so in control, so successful. But he has sensed an ache of sadness in her. It is an ache that he knows all too well.

What he _should_ do is tell Cheryl to mind her own business and leave his love life alone, thank you very much. But his curiosity to know more about Betty gets the better for him.

“How long has she been with her department at the FBI?”

Cheryl shrugs a delicate shoulder. “Oh, it’s going on two years now, TT, isn’t it? Ever since…” She glances at Jughead with an expression of feigned innocence like she accidently let a tidbit about Betty drop.

Jughead knows he should not be taken in,knows that Cheryl would never just accidently let a little something slip, but still he finds himself leaning forward in his chair. “Ever since what?”

“Oh,” Cheryl says vaguely, “since her breakup with Adam.”

“Adam?” asks Jughead. His voice sounds faint to his own ears. Who the hell is Adam? Why is he just learning about this now?

“Tall, dark-haired, so handsome,” says Cheryl with a dreamy sigh that has Jughead narrowing his eyes into slits. 

Toni points a fork in Cheryl’s direction. “Moody though,” she points out.

“Just my cousin’s type,” says Cheryl with a wink in Jughead’s direction.

He glares at her. He knows exactly what she is doing—baiting him into asking more questions because she oh-so-casually, just-so-happened, accidently-but-obviously-on-purpose, dropped the name of Betty’s ex-boyfriend into their conversation. Worse, she has completely ruined his appetite. He looks down at his plate, piled high with toast and eggs and sausage and fruit, and then sighs, pushing it off to the side.

Well, he is certainly not going to reward her by asking anymore questions. He is going to stand up and he is going to leave the table and he is going to _write._

Unfortunately, his mouth seems momentarily disconnected from his brain because he finds himself saying, “Was it serious?”

“Serious enough,” says Cheryl. She takes a sip of coffee and leaves behind a red ring of lipstick on her mug. “Adam worked as a researcher. He was offered some fancy grant to conduct his research in London. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He asked Betty to go with him.”

Jughead waits for her to say more but she lapses into silence and then takes another sip of coffee. “ _And_?” Jughead prompts impatiently.

Toni, thankfully, comes to his rescue. “She said ‘no’—obviously,” says Toni. “At the time, she said it was because of her job with the bureau, but none of us really believed that. She could have made it work from over there. There were bilateral treaties with agencies in England she could have worked in.”

“Which means,” Cheryl says, almost triumphantly, “something else—or _someone_ else, was holding her back.”

Jughead wishes he could ignore the sudden dryness in his mouth and the uptick in his heart rate. Cheryl’s implication is clear—that Jughead, in some way, held Betty back from going all in with this Adam.

But he and Betty had been broken up for years. They had long gone their separate ways. She couldn’t possibly have been holding out hope for a reunion with him.

That would be as crazy as coming back to Riverdale for his sister’s birthday and somehow still hanging around four weeks later, checking his phone obsessively every hour in case Betty needs him again for her case, and letting his relationship with Jessica go to absolute shit in the process.

No, strike that. Refusing to go overseas with a boyfriend—no matter how tall, dark and handsome—because of lingering doubts (for _any_ reason, Cheryl’s interpretation aside) is nowhere near as crazy as he has been these last few weeks.

He stands up abruptly, the top of his legs bashing against the edge of the table. Cheryl sends him a sharp look as some of the dishes clink and her coffee slops dangerously close to the edge of her mug.

“I have a deadline,” he says quickly. “I have to get back to it. Thanks for breakfast.”

It is only with some regret that he leaves his mostly untouched plate of food behind.

* * *

He does, in fact, have a deadline. A ten question quiz entitled: ‘ _Forget your birthdate. What this ten question quiz will tell you about your astrological sign!’_

But he is too on edge to write. He paces in his room, obsessively checking the messages on his phone. He has not heard from Betty since their stakeout at the Maple Club. He knows that she has brought him into her investigation in an “unofficial” capacity. He has not wanted to interfere or cross a line or do anything that could get her in trouble. But he is entitled to some kind of update, isn’t he?

He pulls out his phone, and types up a message:

 _Hey, Betty. I’m still in town_ —

He pauses. He still has not explained to Betty about the whole breakup, no longer living with his live-in girlfriend or exactly having a home or an apartment to go back to thing. He takes a deep breath.

— _JB is graduating in a week and I figured since I made it this far, I should stick around for that._

He forces himself to add in a smiley face at the end of the sentence. Usually he shuns emoticons and exclamation marks, but texting, he knows, is a writing style into itself. A smiley face puts the person on the receiving end of the text at ease—it makes things casual, light. And it seems important that his texts with Betty seem casual and light. 

He sends off the text and then adds:

_How is the investigation going with the Goblins?_

He decides to leave it at that. No pressure. He is not inviting himself along to join the investigation. He does not think that he is crossing any official FBI lines. He is certainly not asking her for all the details about her relationship with her ex-boyfriend Adam.

Thankfully, he does not have to wait long for a response.

_Great! I could use another pair of eyes, actually, if you’re free. Can you meet me? I’m staying at the Sweets Inn. Room 105._

Her text is enough to send his stomach fluttering. He writes back right away: _I’m on my way._

* * *

The Sweets Inn is a drive-up motel located on the edges of town that looks like it was last renovated in the 1970s. The motel is single story only. Each room opens up onto its own parking spot. Out front is the remains of what used to be an outdoor pool, but the fencing has caved in around the pool, and the pool itself is caked with grime and dirt.

Jughead pulls up in front of Room 105. Chilly spring wind ruffles through his hair as he closes the driver’s door behind him and then climbs the stoop to Betty’s door. He knocks on the door, and Betty’s voice calls out: “It’s open!”

He opens the door. Inside, the light is faint and Betty has her blinds drawn across the single window. The room is lined with an old brown carpet, the colour likely selected to camouflage stains and spills the floor may have endured over the last decades. The wallpaper is grey and non-descript. There is one queen bed in the centre of the room, a dark and flower print comforter pulled up tightly over the pillows. 

There is a desk pushed into the corner, and as he steps into the room, he sees that it is covered with what looks like paper maps covered in strings and thumb tacks. Plastered along the walls of the room are posters—no, not posters— _boards_ that look much like the murder boards that he and Betty used to painstakingly design in high school.

Betty stands in the middle of the room, hands on her hips. She is dressed less formally than he has become accustomed to. Instead of her sharp pencilled skirt and blouse, she is wearing what looks to be plaid pajama pants and a snug t-shirt. Her blonde hair sits in tousles waves at her shoulders. And she is wearing her glasses—her _red glasses_ , while she turns in a circle and surveys the organized chaos around her.

Her face is sheepish when she sees the way he is inspecting the room. “Not exactly the Five Seasons,” she admits, “but nobody asks me too many questions, and I can afford it on my per diem from the FBI.”

He wonders if Alice Cooper knows her daughter is living at the Sweets Inn, decides she probably _does_ , and that likely she and Betty have had enough bare-knuckled arguments about it for him not to ask too many follow-up questions.

“I like it,” he says. He does like it. The Sweets Inn is frankly more his scene than the Five Seasons. “You look like you’re making progress.”

She shrugs delicately and then tugs on the bottom of her t-shirt like she is realizing for the first time how informally dressed she is for their meeting. “I’m glad you could come,” she says. “The FBI has those goons from the Maple Club in custody. They lawyered up immediately—gang lawyers, like Penny, so you can believe that they are too terrified to say anything. My boss is promising witness protection, immunity, but they are far more scared of the Goblin than of us. We can’t get anything out of them.” Her red glasses slide down her nose and she pushes them back into place, nibbling thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “We seized almost a kilo of Sugar Rush.”

“That’s good,” says Jughead. She winces and he quickly backtracks. “Not… good?”

“ _Not_ good,” Betty confirms. “We need to find the source of the Sugar Rush. The supply chains. Where is it coming from?” She turns in a circle. “I thought for sure that the supply chain was running south-north. That’s the FBI default, you know. The drugs come up from Mexico, Guatemala, South American. Blame Latin America. That’s our mantra. But what if we’re wrong this time, Jug? What if the supply chain is running south?” She drops her voice. “What if it’s coming from us? What if this stuff is home grown?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he points out. He keeps his voice steady, calming. He wonders: When was the last time she slept? Ate? The way she is pacing and rubbing her hands together, the glint in her eyes, it reminds him of… well, it reminds him of himself.

She suddenly seems to realize that he is staring at her and she stops her pacing, going a little pink in the face. “Sorry,” she suddenly murmurs. 

He blinks at her. “About what?”

She gestures around her and then takes a seat on the edge of the bed, leaning her elbows on her knees. “This,” she murmurs. “Me. I don’t… I’ve learned not to let others see me when I get like this.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers. Something constricts in his throat. His hands itch with the need to hold her and soothe her. His hands itch with the urge to do other things too—like take those glasses off her face and gently set them aside, and then frame her cheeks with his hands, his fingers splaying across her cheeks while he leans in and presses his lips to hers. 

He shakes his head, but the image burns in his mind—holding Betty, kissing Betty, pressing himself up against Betty until they fall back onto the bed and he covers her body with his own.

She looks up at him, her eyes reddened. “I feel like there is something just out of reach. Something I can’t touch, and if I could just _see_ it…” she trails off and shakes her head. “It’s like you said, Jug. The Goblins target the poor, the Southside. These new drugs are killing people. We can arrest those goons like the other night and seize their stash, but until we find the supplier… until we stop the supply chains, they are just going to keep coming.”

“Hey,” he says. He goes to her, crouches down in front of her. After hesitating, he grabs her hands in his, linking their fingers together, thumb swiping against the inside of her palm. “You’re doing everything that you can, Betty. Whatever is happening out there is not your fault.” He squeezes her hands. “I’ll help you. We’ll figure it out.”

She stares down at him, her gaze grim. Then she shakes her head. “I shouldn’t,” she whispers. Her voice sounds hoarse. “I’ve already broken, like, a billion protocols bringing you into this in the first place.”

“So what if you break a few more?”

Her lips curve into a smile. Her hands squeeze his, but then something dark and guilty crosses her face. She drops his hands and rubs her palms against her thighs. “Maybe I should speak to Charles. See if I can bring you on in an official capacity. An expert in Southside gang activity.” 

“Okay, you’ll bring me in officially,” he presses. “No one needs to know you briefed me ahead of time.”

She looks unconvinced, even a little sad, but then her face shifts into something hardened and determined. She pushes herself to her feet and starts pacing around the room, pointing and speaking rapidly as she goes.

“I’ve traced Sugar Rush as far down as Texas. The supplier down there seems to be a Mexican gang, headed by Guillermo.” She points to a board hung over the desk. Pictures of what he assumes must be Mexican gang members stare back at him along with a variety of maps with thumbtacks in them. Then Betty pivots to the next board, a map of Michigan with a string showing a supply chain flowing from the Canadian border. Or into the Canadian border? She explains: “Goblin territory is north. I wondered if Sugar Rush was coming from the north, but we’re sending it to them.” She pauses, and her hands are back on her hips. Her next words are muted. “We’re at the centre. Riverdale, I mean. I’m trying to get specs on power usage—see if there are any spikes over the last few months that could give us a clue where their factory is. But what if they have gone off grid?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “Sweetwater River. All that hydro energy. Growing up, the mayor of Riverdale was always talking about harnessing it ourselves and selling it to nearby counties. But we’ve always been a buyer of electricity, not a seller. Still though,” she continues, “maybe someone else saw an opportunity.”

“It’s a good theory. I can call up some of my old Serpent contacts,” he says. “Maybe there are rumours of someone new in town. If someone has set up a drug factory along Sweetwater River, it won’t be discreet.”

Her eyes light up at the thought. “Jug, if the Goblins really are cooking up Sugar Rush here in Riverdale, then we have an opportunity to cripple them.”

“I know,” he says. Her eyes meet his and he swallows hard. He feels like there is a rubber band wrapped around them both and the more he tries to put distance between them, the stronger the pull is to be close to her again.

He can see the same need reflected back in Betty’s eyes. He knows that she feels the tug between them as strongly as he does.

He steps closer to her and reaches out to trail his fingertip along the edge of her cheek. She leans into the touch, but her eyes are questioning. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He leans in closer to her, framing her cheek with his hand and then his fingers skim her neck and shoulder. “Jessica and I broke up.”

Surprise registers in her eyes. “How long?”

“Before the Maple Club. Before our kiss.”

Her eyes darken. “I’m sorry—” she begins, but whatever else she is going to say is muffled when he presses his lips against hers.

The kiss is almost painful at first. His lips scrape along her teeth, and her hands grab for him, fisting in his hair, before pulling him closer. He wraps his arms around her back and then maneuvers them backwards until her legs hit the back of the bed. She gasps into his mouth and the noise makes him crazy. He wants to hear that noise again. He breaks their kiss and presses his lips everywhere he can reach—nose, cheek, neck, throat.

He is dimly aware that she is whispering his name and dragging him forward until they land in a messy heap on the bed. Betty wriggles underneath him, body rubbing against him in all of the right places. A strangled moan escapes his mouth and there is something soft and smug and content on her face when she pulls him in for another kiss.

Their kiss is slower this time, more languid, and her hands explore him up and down his back. Her touch makes him feel crazy— _crazier_ —and his body practically shakes with the desire to rip off her clothes. But no, he is a civilized man, he has a brain, and that brain can reign in over all his baser instincts. They have not been together in years, and he has to make this go right—he has to.

Her glasses bump against his nose and she laughs sheepishly, breaking their kiss to take the glasses off and gently fold them before placing them on the bedside table. He watches her with hungry eyes. 

Then she lifts her t-shirt up and over her head, tossing it over the side of the bed before returning to him. He shifts to his knees and reaches out to touch the skin of her collarbone, just above the curve of her breasts. Her breath shudders and he smiles. He is entranced by the goosebumps that break out along her bare skin from the cooler air and from his touch.

“Jug,” she says, “I have been thinking about this for so long. But we don’t have to make this complicated, okay? No strings.”

He blinks at her, his sluggish brain trying to catch up to her words. “Is that what you want?”

She shrugs. “I want this. Now. You. We don’t need to overthink it.”

“Okay,” he says. He says it automatically because what else is he supposed to say? He has a well-known tendency to overthink everything in his life. But there are a million reasons why he and Betty—why _this_ —is a bad idea. His life is a mess. He barely earns an income. He has not written a real word of his book in months. She does not deserve to be saddled with him, and all that comes with being Jughead Jones, aimless young adult. But he does not know how to resist her. Truth is, he has never been able to resist her. 

Her eyes search his and she must see something on his face that reassures her because she nods. Any protesting voice in his mind goes quiet when her lips find his again.


End file.
